


Maybe You've Been Watching Me, Too

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Tougher Than the Rest 'Verse [1]
Category: Tron (Movies), Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance, Seduction, Sexual Content, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam pages Alan at two in the morning, asking for a ride home. He wants a little more than that.<br/></p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div>Dauntdraws's art post, <a href="http://dauntdraws.livejournal.com/43604.html">here</a>.
            </blockquote>





	Maybe You've Been Watching Me, Too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daunt/gifts).



Alan gets the page at two in the morning, and even though it's a number he doesn't recognize he rolls to the edge of his empty bed and reaches for the phone.

"This better be good," he mutters the second he hears the click of someone picking up at the end of the line.

There's a laugh, bright and familiar and unexpectedly loose, and then a softer, "Hi, Alan."

"Sam," says Alan, brows knitting with worry. "Are you all right? Did something happen? Why are you paging me this late?" He's gotten calls in the middle of the night before. They never herald anything good. Last time it happened Alan waited past sunup in a blank, sterile hospital room wondering if Sam was going to wake up from a nasty blow to the head.

Barely eighteen and the kid's almost gotten himself killed enough times that every hair on Alan's head has gone prematurely silver.

Or the hair could simply be thanks to time, dragging him forward as he tries to hold his best friend's company together. As he tries to simultaneously stand on the sidelines and still raise Kevin Flynn's son.

"I'm fine," Sam says. "I'm more than fine, I'm. Alan, I need a favor."

Alan sighs, drops his forehead into his free hand.

"What kind of favor?"

"Can you come pick me up?"

"Come— Where are you and why don't you have your bike?"

"I'm in a phone booth on West Seventh, and I _do_ have my bike," says Sam. "It's parked two blocks away from the party."

"Party," Alan mutters. He's starting to see where this is going.

"Yeah, well. You know what always happens at the best parties. Eventually the cops show up."

"Are you in trouble?" Alan asks.

"No way," Sam says, and Alan can hear the grin in his voice. He hears something else now, too. Something slippery and fuzzy and off-balance. And he figures it out even before Sam says, "I'm just… a little drunk. And it'd be a crime to mess up that bike."

Alan sees red for a moment at the casual carelessness of the words—of course it's about the bike. Not Sam's own skull—his all too human and vulnerable body that could end up in pieces if something went wrong on the road.

He breathes in slowly. Breathes out again with his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and doesn't speak until he's found a measure of calm.

"Where on West Seventh?"

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam is leaning against the phone booth when Alan pulls up to the curb. He loiters in a comfortable slouch, wearing a smirk on his face that makes Alan wonder if any other drivers have gotten the wrong impression and rolled down their windows for him.

He banishes the thought as quickly as it enters his mind, but not quite quickly enough to discard the unwelcome realization that the boy makes a dangerously appealing sight.

The smirk widens into a lazy grin as Sam pushes off of the booth and pulls his hands from his pockets. Alan holds himself in check until Sam has slammed the door and buckled himself into the passenger seat, and then he can't hold his tongue any longer.

"You're smarter than this, Sam."

"Good to see you, too, Alan," says Sam, but his smile turns needling as he drops his head back against the seat. He slumps lazily, turning to blink at Alan as the car pulls away from the curb and angles down the street.

Alan briefly considers bringing Sam back to his place, where it'll be easier to keep an eye on him, but decides Sam wouldn't have paged him if he didn't plan on behaving himself for the rest of the night. He takes a right at the next intersection, aiming for the apartment Sam has lived in for all of two weeks.

"Why're you so pissed?" Sam asks. His tone is teasing, but his eyes are heavy. "Aren't you always saying we should spend more time together?"

Alan _is_ always saying that. He can feel Sam slipping away from him, millimeter by millimeter, and the tighter he holds on the more it feels like the boy is determined to drift away. Alan may be a shitty surrogate father—should maybe tell the big-shots at Encom to shove it once in a while and make _Sam_ his highest priority instead of constantly trying to juggle the two—but he's trying, and it hurts to watch the distance spreading between them.

"Not like this," Alan says, barely braking for the stop sign at a four-way intersection. "Not at two in the goddamn morning, with you wasted and waiting on some street corner. There are better ways to get my attention, Sam."

"I bet there are," Sam murmurs. Alan takes his eyes off the road long enough to throw him a sideways glance, and the look on Sam's face is something he can't even begin to decipher.

He puts his eyes back on the road where they belong, reaching up to straighten his glasses, and wonders why his precisely buttoned collar feels suddenly too tight.

"I don't like worrying about you," Alan says. He's holding the steering wheel too hard, trying not to notice the way Sam has shifted in his seat and is now staring intently at Alan's profile. "The stunts you pull, the risks you take… Do you have any idea what it's like, standing by and wondering if the next adrenaline rush you chase is going to be the one that kills you?"

"Jesus, Alan, it was just a party."

"Just a party _this_ time," Alan says, and now they're merging onto the interstate, and his anger is back in such force that his hand shakes on the gear shift. "But what about last time, Sam? What about _next_ time? And for god's sake, you're _eighteen_."

"You're saying I shouldn't be drinking at parties?" Sam asks. He turns so that he's sitting almost sideways in his seat, seatbelt straining.

"Among other things," Alan mutters.

"There's an easy solution to that, you know," Sam says. He smiles again, wide and bright, and if Alan didn't know better he'd call that look flirtatious. As it is he's too angry to let it rattle him, and he takes an exit ramp too sharply, jerking them in their seats as he follows the exit to the left.

"I'm not buying you alcohol, Sam," he says. It's an old argument. They've been having it since Sam turned fifteen.

"Come on, Alan. You. Me. A bottle of stupidly expensive tequila. Think of it as an experiment."

"I think you've done enough experimenting for one lifetime." Again Alan becomes aware of the stiffness of his collar—of the inexplicable way his face flushes warm.

"Ouch," Sam smirks. "Lighten up, would you? I'm not nearly as drunk as you seem to think."

"It's cute how you think the scope of your inebriation somehow mitigates the fact that you've been drinking in the first place."

"That's what I like about you, Alan," says Sam, hand closing suddenly, affectionately on Alan's arm. "You use words like 'mitigate' in your sentences, and you do it _completely_ un-ironically." The hand drops, but Alan still feels the phantom warmth through his sleeve.

Sam's apartment is just ahead now—a tall, secure building with a parking garage and an underground entrance—and Alan tries to focus on the fact that their destination is in sight.

"Don't change the subject when I'm trying to chew you out," Alan says. He stops at the sturdy metal door to the garage, then rolls down his window to punch Sam's code into the waiting keypad. He's had the number memorized since the day Sam moved in.

The garage is barely lit, dim and oppressive despite the scattered bulbs struggling to light the chilly space. Alan maneuvers to Sam's parking space like familiar territory and, hesitating only a moment, turns off the engine.

There's just enough light coming through the windshield for him to make out Sam's face when he turns, and the expression he finds waiting for him nearly knocks the air out of his chest. Gone is the teasing smirk, the eyes glinting brightly with mischief, the flash of teeth from a moment before. Sam is watching him with serious eyes, not breaking eye contact as he unlocks his seatbelt and turns to face Alan directly.

"Come upstairs," Sam says.

Alan knows suddenly, sharply, that accepting Sam's invitation would be a very bad idea, even as his mind shies away from too close an analysis of the reasons.

"Sam, it's late," he says. It's not quite no, but he's got no intention of getting out of this car.

Sam shifts closer. He reaches across the narrow gap between the seats, over the parking brake and the gear shift, and hits the button to release Alan's seatbelt. It makes a slick rasping sound as it retracts. Alan lets go of the steering wheel and feels anxious apprehension settle beneath his skin.

"Come upstairs with me," Sam repeats.

"I can't," Alan says.

Sam heaves an audible sigh and throws himself back into his seat. He looks tired suddenly. And frustrated. And Alan wonders why, in the middle of all this, _he_ suddenly feels like there's something he should be apologizing for.

Sam swallows, throat working with the movement, and Alan's eyes are caught by the sight for a moment before he thinks to jerk his gaze ahead. The headlights are off and he can barely make out the dark pattern of bricks in front of his car, but it's still a better place to look than the most obvious alternative.

"Alan," says Sam. Then, when Alan keeps staring straight ahead, " _Alan_. Seriously. Would you just _look_ at me?"

Alan does. Sam is watching him again. There's something brazen and dangerous in his expression, his posture, the slant of his shoulders. Something wicked with intent in his eyes. Alan briefly considers opening the car door and fleeing into the garage, but that just puts him a step closer to doing what Sam is asking—whatever the hell that is.

Sam moves with unexpected speed, and in the span of a blink he goes from curled in his own seat to straddling Alan's lap, smoothly maneuvering over the gear shift and fitting himself in the narrow space between driver and steering wheel.

"What—?" Alan starts to ask, but that's all the further he gets.

Interrupted mid-sentence, he's got no time to close his mouth—to try and dissuade Sam's tongue from darting past his lips—and he can taste the echoes of something sweet and tart and decidedly alcoholic. Sam's kiss is smooth and filthy, a deliberate attack that leaves Alan's head spinning and squashes his glasses awkwardly back on his face.

He tries to shove Sam off of him, but there's not enough room. He reaches higher, gets a hold of Sam's shoulders, and for a moment forgets why he put his hands there. Sam's tongue teases along his own, chiding and coaxing, and Alan almost moans, almost starts kissing back—maybe does a little, god help him—before getting it together and pushing Sam away.

He doesn't earn himself much respite with the effort. Sam is still too close, still sharing Alan's air in ragged breaths. He lets himself be held at bay, but Alan can feel in the tension of his body that it's only a matter of time before Sam makes some other move.

"What are you doing?" Alan rasps, finally finishing the question Sam cut off so abruptly. He's staring at Sam's lips—slick and just a little bit swollen—and belatedly jerks his gaze up to meet Sam's eyes.

Sam looks dazed for a second, but snaps out of it quickly. The edge of his mouth twitches upwards, quirking into a pointed half-smile.

His hands are on Alan's chest. His knees press into the seat on either side of Alan's hips. There's suddenly not enough air in the car.

"If you really need to ask that question, then I'm pretty sure I did it wrong," says Sam. He reaches up then, movements slow, and takes gentle hold of Alan's glasses. Alan briefly considers stopping him as he draws them off of Alan's face, but doing so would require releasing his grip on Sam's shoulders—it would mean surrendering the one point of restraint he has, and he knows exactly what will happen then.

Alan swallows thickly as Sam folds the glasses up and tosses them carelessly onto the empty passenger seat.

"You're drunk," Alan says. As if _that's_ the worst thing about the turn this conversation has taken.

Sam laughs then, low and sleek, and says, "Maybe a little. But I don't need to be drunk to want things I'm not supposed to have, Alan. Trust me."

"What are you saying?"

He doesn't mean to ask the question. He's pretty sure he can't afford to hear the answer. Bad enough that he's let things go this far—that he actually _wants_ this. God, this is Kevin's _son_. An eighteen-year-old boy and one of the most important responsibilities in Alan's life.

But Sam is already answering, voice gone husky with intent as his fingers find Alan's collar and start slowly undoing the top buttons of his shirt.

"You can't really be this blind," says Sam. His fingers are nimble and warm, and Alan is finding it difficult to breathe even as his collar loosens, opens, falls aside beneath Sam's touch. "I know you've caught me looking. And I've sure as hell caught _you_ out once or twice."

Can that be true? Alan thinks hard, tries to remember wanting this, looking at Sam this way, and realizes with a guilty start that he has. God, he's looked and wanted and shut the thoughts away so fast he never had to face them.

But the images come readily enough now, clear and sharp. Sam's shirt riding up as he rummaged in a high cupboard, Sam's jeans slung sinfully low on his hips, Sam's bruised back as Alan patched him up after a careless fall.

Jesus, how long has he been pretending this away?

He wants to deny Sam's accusation, but his voice lodges somewhere in his throat and the words refuse to come.

"Hey," Sam says, face going more serious at the effect his words are obviously having on Alan. "God, relax, I didn't mean it like that."

"No," says Alan. "It's not… Sam, I'm s—"

But Sam's palm presses suddenly, tightly over his mouth, and there's a stubborn look in Sam's eyes as he growls, "If you say you're sorry, I swear to god I won't speak to you until my next birthday. At the _earliest_."

He takes his hand away, and Alan is surprised at how steady his own voice sounds when he says, "I need you to get out of my car."

"Fuck that," says Sam. And then he's surging forward in a rush—he's pushing against Alan's hands and kissing him again, only this time the kiss is rough and demanding, and Alan spares a fraction of a brain cell to wonder where the boy learned to kiss this way. Then he can't spare even that much coherent thought, because Sam's teeth are grazing his lower lip, Sam's fingers are dipping beneath his collar and teasing across his skin, Sam's body is pressed against him in all the wrong places and Alan is fast losing the ability to keep his head above water.

His own eyes are closed. His hands are still gripping Sam's shoulders, but with no apparent intention of pushing him away again.

He tries. But the signal must get lost somewhere between his brain and his wrists, because he doesn't manage the trick.

When Sam pulls back, Alan expects more cajoling. More arguments and invitations. He's not expecting Sam to dip his head and press kiss-slick lips to his jaw—or to follow up with a string of pointed kisses down the line of his throat. Alan's breath hitches and he almost doesn't notice when Sam's fingers coax another button free, then the next below it, as his mouth dips even lower along Alan's chest.

"Sam, stop," Alan rasps. He shivers, thinks for a moment Sam won't, but finally Sam pulls back and regards him with wide eyes, pupils dilated in the dark.

They stare each other down through an impossibly taut moment, and Alan doesn't know what to say. There must be words that would stop this here and now, but he can't find them. He's too distracted by the taste of alcohol and _Sam_ on his tongue, the warm weight of Sam's body on top of him, the way Sam's palm is pressed along his skin beneath his shirt, and where did all those buttons go anyway?

Sam looks breathless and eager, and Alan can't figure out what that look is doing leveled at _him_.

He can't figure out much of anything like this, but he has to try. He has to screw his head on straight before this goes somewhere unforgivable—somewhere there's no coming back from.

A manic little voice laughs in his head, and he has to concede the point. There's already no coming back from this. He's already hesitated long enough that forgiveness is a useless fantasy.

"You want me," Sam finally says. Simply. Urgently.

Alan doesn't try to deny it.

"And I should just take whatever I want?" Alan says, frowning. "Damn the consequences and who cares if someone gets hurt?"

Sam looks incredulous and he says, "You could never hurt me, Alan."

Alan swallows, anxiety an unpleasant pit in his stomach, and wishes that were true.

"Maybe I already have," he whispers. How else did they get here?

"That's bullshit," says Sam. "You've never let me down. Not once. You're the only one."

"I'm letting you down right now," Alan says. "God damnit, Sam, I'm a grown man and you're—"

"What?" Sam cuts him off, looking suddenly exasperated. "A child? Some stupid kid who doesn't know how the world works? You know me better than that."

He does. He knows. That doesn't make this right.

"I can't do this with you," he says.

"Then let me," says Sam, and his hand trails south.

Alan needs to stop him. He needs to intercept and catch Sam's wrist before— Christ, he's already hesitated too long and Sam's nimble fingers are undoing his buckle, pulling at the leather, reaching for Alan's fly once the belt is out of the way.

Sam's hand slips recklessly, shamelessly down past the open zipper, beneath the black fabric of Alan's briefs, first cupping then closing around the heated length of Alan's erection.

" _Ah_ ," Alan gasps, hips bucking into the touch so sharply that he jostles Sam on his lap. Sam leers at him, smug and self-satisfied, as he tightens his hold and begins to stroke.

Alan's own hands flounder, losing their relatively harmless position on Sam's arms, and then he's reaching, grasping without thought, gasping against Sam's shoulder as Sam nuzzles his throat, and when he finds his hands again they've migrated to Sam's hips. He's holding on too tightly, but hard as he tries he can't seem to loosen his grip.

"I'll use my mouth next time," Sam whispers raggedly, lips brushing Alan's jaw, his cheek, the shell of his ear. "If you'll let me." Alan groans, gasps as Sam drags his thumb across the head then resumes the same, steady pace as before.

He feels Sam's smile pressed to his throat just as Sam's hand stops moving—just as Sam murmurs, "Or you could fuck me."

" _Jesus_ ," Alan gasps, straining to hold still. He swallows hard, drops his head back against the seat, forces his eyes to open so he can see the mischievous look on Sam's face. There's something too knowing there, too bright and sure and eager.

"Do you have any idea how long I've wanted you to fuck me?" Sam asks. Alan's jaw clenches and he shakes his head.

He doesn't know. He doesn't _want_ to know. He doesn't want to be thinking about how long this has been going on, or how young Sam is, or how completely he's falling now that his defenses are down.

"I think about it all the time," Sam says in a tone more goading than confessional. "About what it would feel like to have your fingers inside me. Your dick. You'd open me up slow first, wouldn't you? You'd be so fucking careful."

Alan stifles a fresh groan. His cock pulses eagerly in Sam's motionless hand, and he tries to be grateful for the limited space the car offers them. Because if they had more room to maneuver—if Sam were actually asking him for this _now_ —Alan's honestly not sure he would say no.

Sam kisses him again now, the fingers of his free hand threading through Alan's hair, and Alan makes it all of three seconds before he's kissing back—desperate and needy and sick with how easily he's fallen to this. Somewhere along the line he lost track of all the no's he was supposed to be saying and it all became a jagged chorus of _yes_.

Sam's lips part, open and inviting, and this time Alan accepts the invitation. He tastes what's offered, explores and maps and claims, and doesn't once try to pull away. Sam gasps against his lips, pulls back far enough for air.

"You can touch me," he murmurs, breath ghosting over Alan's lips. "God, Alan, _please_ touch me."

And he shouldn't. He shouldn't and he can't and this is the kind of wrong he knows he's going to Hell for. But Sam's hand is still a taunting, unmoving pressure on his dick, and Sam's weight is so heavy, so perfect on his lap, and Sam's mouth is all breathy moans and filthy words, and Alan is done. He can't fight it anymore.

His hands tighten briefly on Sam's hips, and then he's dragging Sam roughly closer. One hand drifts, lower, towards Sam's fly, and Alan feels a dreamlike disconnect as he snaps the button open and fumbles the zipper. Gets his hand inside, impossible heat, skin against skin, and it takes him a minute to process what that means.

"You conniving little—"

Sam kisses him again, and Alan can feel his grin through the brief press of lips.

"Surprise," he says smugly, nuzzling at Alan's jaw.

Alan is startled enough to say, "Isn't it a little uncomfortable, going commando on a motorcycle?"

"Worth it," Sam purrs, completely unrepentant.

Alan doesn't hesitate now that he's here. His fingers close around the firm length of Sam's cock, and he pulls heated flesh out into the barely cooler air between them, giving a single, decisive stroke that draws a stuttered moan from Sam's lips. He sets a quick pace, and Sam's own hand resumes its ministrations in time with Alan's. They're both shaking now, both taut and close and determined, and then Sam says something that almost drags Alan over the edge right there.

"Would you—" Gasp, shudder, swallowed moan. "Can you—… _Fuck_ , I want more. Please. _Please_."

"What?" Alan asks, struggling to breathe, to hold his orgasm at bay while he figures out what Sam needs. "What do you want me to do?"

Sam gives a shaky exhale that ghosts over Alan's collarbone, then reaches to set his free hand on top of the one Alan is still bracing against his hip. He presses, nudges—until Alan gets the hint and loosens his hold—then guides Alan's hand behind him to the small of his back. To the spot where the back of his jeans is gapping open just far enough for a hand to fit.

"Oh," Alan realizes, momentarily so stunned he doesn't know what to do.

Sam releases his hand and surges forward, pressing himself along Alan's chest, biting at the soft flesh just below his ear, and god, Alan didn't know Sam was a biter but the sensations go straight to his already spinning head. He's frozen for a moment, lost in the enormity of whatever this is that they're doing, and then—without slowing his rhythm—he takes his free hand from Sam's back, raises it between them and presses his index and middle fingers to Sam's lower lip.

Sam's lips part instantly, jaw dropping on a breathy pant, and Alan slides the digits into Sam's mouth—to the first knuckle. The second. Wants to keep pressing deeper, but he's already distracted by the way Sam's lips press closed around them, tongue working between them as his cheeks hollow and he slicks Alan's fingers with saliva.

Alan's brain stutters out at the sight—the sensation—and the hand he's using to stroke Sam towards climax falters. Sam's eyes are open, sharp and blue, and he's got Alan locked in the kind of look that's liable to set something on fire.

When Alan moves to pull his fingers from Sam's mouth, Sam's lips part again readily. They've both gone impossibly still against each other now—stuck in a tight silence full of expectation—and Alan watches Sam's face carefully, so carefully, as his thumb grazes the small of Sam's back beneath the hem of his t-shirt. As his fingers dip beneath denim and probe further down.

Sam gasps sharply when one of Alan's fingers finds its mark and presses inside. His hips stutter, his cock twitches in Alan's hand, and he breathes a sharp, quiet, " _Fuck_."

Alan wants to ask if this is really okay—if this is what Sam wants—but instead he's pressing deeper, marveling at how tight, how hot Sam feels.

"More," Sam growls—his face is buried in the crook of Alan's shoulder, breath warming Alan's chest. "Fuck. _Fuck_ , Alan, _more_."

Alan presses a second finger in beside the first.

Sam comes apart then, suddenly, perfectly. A sound hitches low in his chest, something halfway between a moan and a sob, and then his hand is moving over Alan's cock again. Pressing, stroking, purposeful and intense. Alan resumes in kind, matches the stroking rhythm of one hand to the in-and-out of his fingers, penetrating deeper with every thrust. Sam rocks against him—desperate, wanton, messy and eager and frantic—and Alan feels the cusp of his own orgasm surging towards him.

He fights it as hard as he can. He needs to get Sam there first—needs to see Sam's face as he falls apart. He speeds his pace, slides his fingers deeper still, and isn't disappointed.

Sam's whole body arches when he comes, spine taut, head thrown back, face a mess of bliss and release and satisfaction. His hand stills, loses its grip entirely, but Alan doesn't mind. He doesn't let go, doesn't remove his fingers from the impossible heat of Sam's body, until he's sure Sam is spent—until his shirt is sticky with the evidence and he can feel Sam's cock softening beneath his touch.

 _Then_ he takes himself in hand and finishes bringing himself over the edge.

He's slow to come back down, and when he does he finds Sam lying against his chest, head on Alan's shoulder, fingers of his left hand fidgeting with the open edges of Alan's shirt. There's sated contentment in the lazy line of Sam's body. Alan can feel a similar lethargy weighing down his own limbs.

But as the physical intensity fades, reality snakes back in, and Alan feels suddenly sick as fear and guilt crash and twist in his stomach. He must go stiff or give himself away somehow, because Sam pulls back then. Sam's eyes are sleepy, but his focus comes back quickly at whatever it is he sees on Alan's face.

"Don't," says Sam. "Don't you dare."

Alan shakes his head. He's got no idea what to say.

"I need you to get off of me," he whispers into the edgy stillness of the car. But his hands aren't letting go, which means Sam couldn't obey even if he wanted to—and from the look in his eyes, Alan guesses obedience is the farthest thing from Sam's mind.

"Don't you shut down on me," Sam growls as fresh intensity darkens his features. "Don't look at me like the whole fucking world is going to end just because we've jerked each other off."

Alan flinches, and suddenly can't meet Sam's eyes. He can't face the words. Because Sam is drunk—even if he looks terrifyingly sober now—and Sam is too young, and Sam is Kevin Flynn's son, and the magnitude of this betrayal is enough to make Alan's vision dance unpleasantly.

"Alan please," Sam says. The growl is gone from his voice, replaced with a misplaced desperation that makes it impossible not to look at him. "I wanted this. I _still_ want this."

"You're drunk," Alan whispers. It's the second time he's made the declaration, and it still slithers unpleasantly beneath his ribs, all the worse now for the lines they've crossed.

"Not that drunk," says Sam. Alan shakes his head, and Sam presses, "Then come upstairs. Stay the night, I swear I'll keep my hands to myself, and in the morning when I want to do it all over again you'll see."

"Oh god." Alan knows he can't go upstairs with Sam, promise or not. He knows he can't be trusted with this boy. Part of his brain already half expects to hear police sirens bearing down on them, ready to take him away.

But that's not going to happen, he realizes distantly. Sam has been eighteen for exactly two weeks, and a new suspicion forms in Alan's mind.

"You've been waiting for this," he realizes, shock making his voice sound numb. "You've. Jesus, Sam, did you intend all this from the start? Did you go to that party tonight _planning_ to call me for a ride home?"

"No," says Sam. But there's a quick flash of guilt in his eyes that tells Alan he was at least considering the possibility.

Alan doesn't know whether to feel used or flattered. He settles for confused, shaking his head and lost for words.

"Sam—"

"Come upstairs." It's the same impossible request, rinse and repeat, and for a long moment all Alan can do is stare. Sam meets him head-on, unflinching. That eager glint is back in his eyes and his jaw is set stubbornly. He looks so much like his father in this moment that Alan's heart hurts.

"I can't," he says. He means it. He's not getting out of this car with Sam.

His repeated refusal finally seems to hit its mark, and a look of dark frustration creases Sam's features. Alan wonders if some other invitation will follow now—or an ultimatum, or maybe just an angry demand that Alan stay the hell out of Sam's life from now on. His chest pulses sorely at the thought, but considering the night so far he won't be surprised if the next words out of Sam's mouth are 'I never want to see you again.'

"I really fucked this one up, didn't I," Sam finally says.

Alan blinks. Stares. Blinks again.

"I took it too far," Sam continues. "I should've given you more time to adjust to the idea instead of just… throwing myself at you like this."

"Sam," Alan says, aghast. "It's not a question of adjustment. It's right and wrong. What I did to you—"

"What you did to me felt amazing," Sam interjects. "And I've wanted you to do it since I was _fifteen_."

"Jesus Christ, Sam." He can't think about that. He can't get his head around it, and he damn well doesn't want to.

"Alan, I'm not a minor anymore. I'm legal, and there's no one but you saying we can't do this. I'm a consenting adult." Sam shifts on Alan's lap, movement deliberate and full of offered potential, and he leans closer to add, "I'm a consenting adult who wants you to fuck me."

Alan's head thumps back against the seat, but he can't close his eyes or tear his gaze away from the way Sam is looking at him.

"Why me?" he asks. "Why not someone your own age?" Why not someone more appropriate, he wants to say but doesn't.

"Tried that," says Sam. "Plenty of times. They're not you." And for all that Alan is insisting this can't happen, he feels a jealous twinge at that—at the answer to his previous unvoiced questions about where Sam picked up all those filthy things he can do with his mouth.

He tries to mask his reaction, but Sam catches it anyway, and a hopeful, mischievous smile edges cautiously across Sam's face.

"Alan, come on," he says. "We both know I'm irresistible. Why not save yourself the torture and give in now?"

Alan's running out of reasons, and fast forgetting the ones he already listed. Now that he knows what Sam is offering, he wants it so badly his chest aches. There was a point of no return somewhere, miles behind them, and now it just feels like fighting the inevitable.

"I'm more than twice your age," Alan says. "And I'm supposed to take care of you."

"I don't need taking care of," Sam insists. Alan would disagree, adamantly and noisily, but Sam is shifting his weight, sliding closer. "I just need _you_."

When Sam kisses him this time, it's completely different from before. It's almost chaste at first, cautious and testing, as his fingers brush over Alan's throat and into his hair, as Sam's lips part just far enough to constitute an invitation.

This is the deciding point. This is where Alan should walk away. If he puts a stop to this now—if he breaks this kiss, so soft and different from the others—Sam will let it drop. He'll get out of Alan's car and stop inviting him upstairs and things will go back to a tense, tainted mockery of the way they were before. Alan as surrogate father figure, Sam as rebellious teenager who doesn't want to rely on anybody, both of them soiled by the intimacy they've shared tonight.

How long before he loses Sam completely, if they follow that path? How many months before Sam cuts Alan out of his life and simply walks away?

The thought makes something sick and sharp and miserable curl up in Alan's gut, and he knows he can't let that happen. He's kissing back before he consciously means to, letting his hands slide over Sam's back, his hips, pulling Sam flush against him as he tilts his head to a better angle and snakes his tongue past Sam's parted lips.

Sam hums relief into his mouth, lips parting wider, fingers tightening in Alan's hair, and it feels like a promise.

Alan doesn't need promises from Sam. He just needs this.

It will be a messy secret between them. Not to mention a press disaster of apocalyptic proportions if anyone ever finds out. And Alan knows damn well that he'll never escape the guilt. It will keep right on gnawing at him, nudging him, circling him like a predator until Sam gets Alan out of his system and moves on.

And even then it will still be there, but Alan can deal with that. He'd take on worse for Sam. There's no point fighting it now.

Sam is smiling when he finally pulls away, and even in the dim, shadowed light of the garage Alan has to admit the expression is warmer, more genuine than he's seen on the boy's face in a long time. Relief and lightness, and a hunger that lies banked just beneath the surface.

"I'm still not coming upstairs tonight," Alan says firmly, then cuts off Sam's protest with, "But I'll stop by tomorrow after work. I'll… bring pizza. We can talk."

"Talk," says Sam. Cautious and teasing and skeptical.

"Yes," Alan insists. "We're going to talk this through, Sam. And we're going to do it when both of us are sober. I'm too old to be thinking with my dick, and I'm still not convinced you really know what you want."

Exasperation twists across Sam's features and he says, "That's bullshit. I know exactly what I want."

"Then convince me tomorrow. _Without_ crawling in my lap. If we can't discuss this like adults then it's never going to work." He's not convinced it will work even then, but there's no point giving voice to those doubts. He's vested. He's not going to drop the ball now.

Sam's face falls somber and he says, "But you'll come tomorrow? You promise?"

"I'll be here," says Alan. He couldn't stay away if he tried.

Sam kisses him again, one last time, then reaches for the handle of the driver's side door. Alan feels relief rattle tiredly in his chest at the fact that he doesn't need to ask Sam to leave again. He watches without touching as Sam tucks himself away and zips back up—as Sam grins and melts off Alan's lap and out into the garage. He stands there beside Alan's car for a moment, leaning on the door and wearing an indecipherable look.

"Thank you," says Sam. He moves before Alan can respond, around the door and deeper into the garage, towards the elevator bank in the far corner. Alan watches him go, stunned and silent, and finally thinks to slam the car door closed.

He starts backing out of the space, realizes he can't see beyond the nearest couple cars—fumbles for his glasses in the passenger seat until his fingers find the cool, folded metal frames.

His hands are shaking as he puts the glasses on his face. The world comes into focus and everything is a mess.

But he'll be here tomorrow, as promised, and they'll talk. At the moment, that's as far ahead as he can think.


End file.
